


Sins of My Youth

by turnofthesentry



Category: Dark Avengers (Comic), Marvel (Comics)
Genre: Abusive Parents, Alternate Universe - High School, Animal Death, Cheating, Closeted Character, F/F, F/M, Family Issues, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Outing, Relationship of Convenience, Scheming, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-12
Updated: 2012-02-12
Packaged: 2017-10-31 00:27:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/337883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/turnofthesentry/pseuds/turnofthesentry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Victoria and you had been dating for a good two months or so. She wasn't out to a single person, as far as you know, except for you, which had been a pleasant surprise she'd dropped on your lap shortly after agreeing to date you, presumably so that you'd know immediately you couldn't touch anything but her lips. She had suggested running for Student Office as a couple for the voter appeal, and you couldn't deny it had worked as a tactic. Mostly you two made out and held hands for show, and were certainly one of the school's most darling couples. </p>
<p>Student Body President Norman Osborn and his girlfriend, Vice President Victoria Hand run the show at Empire State High School, yet trouble in their routine arises when they're confronted with two new arrivals: transfer student Robert Reynolds, and the new Ethics T.A. Karla Sofen. Mostly because they are super hot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sleeping is Giving in

"Norman." 

"… Hm?" You almost don't hear her over the sound of your own heartbeat in your ears, although her voice is also muffled by the collision of your mouths. You pretend not to have heard until she bites down on your lower lip gently, forcing your attention. 

"Norman." 

" _What?_ " 

You know you sound impatient, but that's only because you _are._ You are, after all, a senior at Empire State High School, Student Body President, and generally devoted boyfriend to Victoria Hand. Your name is Norman Osborn, and you hate being interrupted in the middle of making out with your girlfriend. 

However, your girlfriend seems perfectly content with interrupting, regardless of your stance on the matter. 

"In case you haven't checked the time, we have an appointment to get to in seven minutes," she says, pushing you away and gazing levelly behind her glasses. Victoria is your Vice President. "Not to mention there's no one here to enjoy our little PDA display, and I'd rather not let you think this is going to be some kind of regular thing." 

Incidentally, she's also a lesbian. 

Victoria and you had been dating for a good two months or so. She wasn't out to a single person, as far as you know, except for you, which had been a pleasant surprise she'd dropped on your lap shortly after agreeing to date you, presumably so that you'd know immediately you couldn't touch anything but her lips. She had suggested running for Student Office as a couple for the voter appeal, and you couldn't deny it had worked as a tactic. Mostly you two made out and held hands for show, and were certainly one of the school's most darling couples. 

"This is goddamn bullshit," you say, which is what you always say, and she ignores you like she always does. They might be just words, but they sate your ego. "What appointment?" 

Victoria looks at her notebook, though she already has everything written in it memorized. "Nothing taxing. We've been delegated the duty to give a transfer student the rundown of the school. And by _we_ I mean _you._ " 

That cheeky smile she gives you drives you crazy, in every way possible. You resist the urge to bargain for more time to kiss because this news is just that bad. 

"That's not my _job,_ " you hiss at her, knowing she knows. You have both had extended back-and-forths about how the school's staff abuses your positions, usually when you're supposed to be paying attention at assembly. Victoria leads you down the hallway while you complain. 

"--entire list of changes the school _ought_ to make, but none of the staff here has enough brainpower to comprehend how to budget for a simple coat of paint, let alone textbooks that aren't from the turn of the century -- far be it from me to care that much about what any of the idiots here take away from their classes, but I know I'd like to graduate from a school with _some_ dignity if I'm supposed to get into any sort of respectable--" 

Your sentence dies before Victoria can even interrupt you. "Norman," she says. "This is Robert Reynolds. Robert, this is Norman, your Student Body President. He'll be showing you around today in the place of our principal -- don't hesitate to ask him anything if you have questions." 

You look at him. You don't say anything. He's tall and muscular, with short blonde hair and large blue eyes. You realize that you're speechless, staring dumbly forward into his eyes, and glare at him when he tries to smile at you. A jock, you determine quickly. Probably an idiot. He looks appropriately intimidated by the look you give him, and that's when you smile and hold your hand out. 

"Nice to meet you, Robert. You're in good hands with me, don't worry." 

"I'm not worried," he says. "This is preferable, if you ask me. Better to get to know the other students than the principal." 

"A fine sentiment. After all, who's the one who'll really be watching your back? We like a very _hands on_ approach here at ES, like the staff that suffers with you," you say, still smiling. You touch his shoulder and lead him from the room, Victoria watching you with her trademark quiet scrutiny. 

 

"-- And this is the football field, which I presume you'll be fast acquainted with." The field is expansive and garishly green, enough for you to narrow your eyes at it. Victoria calls your disdain for sports melodramatic. You disagree. Academia and athletics are two completely separate fields, and it's your correct opinion that the two shouldn't be mixed. You could play football if you wanted to -- you work out -- but a sports scholarship is basically a handout, and certainly no way to get into the working world. 

Your disdain, additionally, has nothing to do with the fact you have hated every athlete you've met at this school, particularly the ones with enough arrogance to suggest you'd somehow be envious of them in the same breath they made fun of your hair. There was simply no curbing attitude. 

"Yeah, I guess I will," he says. "I haven't decided if I'm going to sit this season out or not -- while I adjust to everything, you know?" He tilts his head to look toward the bleachers and you observe how precisely defined his jaw is. 

He looks at you again and you look away, unsure if he caught you staring. 

"You don't have to take time out of your day on account of me." He smiles. "I know it's… well, if it's protocol, or whatever, but I can navigate a school well enough. If you have something else to do…" 

"I always have something else to do. I do jobs on _top_ of my jobs, and is it ever _thankless._ But I couldn't let anyone else do it -- I'm the only one who knows what kind of changes need to get made around here. I have ideas they're too afraid to implement." 

They don't care about your ideas, and you don't really, either. You only care about how this job will look on your college transcript. 

"Wow," Robert says. Your palms feel oddly sweaty and you hide them within your pockets as you relish the awed look he's giving you. 

You think about it later that evening as you're walking home. You don't have a car, but that's all right -- the exercise keeps you fit and your calves nice and muscular. You only live a mile away from school, and today the walk seems much shorter. You're stuck on his eyes, big and blue with wispy blonde lashes surrounding them, and then you're suddenly filled with abject rage that your girlfriend isn't walking home with you. 

As usual you unlock your door to an empty house, which suits you well enough as you have homework to do anyway. Outside the dog is barking and you wish to hell you had something heavy to shut it up with, but you simply slam and lock your door. You always lock yourself in. You decide to forgo the schoolwork for now and instead lay down on your bed, opting to daydream about your lesbian girlfriend letting you do more than just kiss her. Second base at least. Maybe _you_ could bite _her_ lip. Oh yeah. 

 

Her hand is warm in yours as you walk down the hallway, and you stop beside her locker and give the knuckles of her hand a kiss as she twirls the combination lock. Victoria gives you her usual look from over her glasses frames. 

"What? Has my romantic prowess left you speechless?" you ask, and she rolls her eyes. 

"Your romantic prowess always leaves me speechless," she says in possibly the most deadpan tone you've heard her muster. You kiss her hand again. "How did it go with the new kid?" 

"Robert?" You're surprised she asked, but not _that_ surprised. "How are you supposed to get a read on a person after one day? He's big, blonde, and muscular -- he'll fit right in with all the other athletes," you say sourly. You think about his eyes for a moment, how they'd be hidden in the overhung shadow of a dented football helmet. You think about what a waste it is that such a chiseled face could be subject to the merciless soil of the football field. 

"If you'd looked at his transcripts you'd have seen he's an A-student," Victoria says, raising her eyebrow. "He's considering a career in science, apparently." 

"Are we supposed to read transcripts?" You're not, though you've still read plenty, but you hate when she takes that tone. She shrugs and gives you a chaste kiss on the cheek before walking past you to class. 

You follow her, possessed by a fever that's overtaken your mind and your cheeks that makes you long to touch her. It's strange; you're not accustomed to _need._ Your system has, in fact, been working perfectly well up to this moment. 

"Victoria." You catch her before she goes into class, her fingers caught in your own. She looks at you with a mixture of exasperation and pity and your lip snarls in response, but you don't let go. 

"Norman," she says, and leans close. "Later." And she goes into class. 

You have no class this period, so you wait in the chemistry lab and decide to work on some papers you'd put off. The staff always delegates their work to you but you don't mind that much -- it just means you have that much more say in what goes on around here. 

An hour later, Victoria touches your face and asks if you'd like her to walk home with you. You say yes, and the two of you hold hands the entire way. Victoria walks surprisingly fast given her small build, and the mile walk home is over quickly. 

She locks your bedroom door and touches your collar, her expression stern. You watch her eyes, which are brown and narrow and bordered with thick dark lashes. They're harsh, uncompromising. 

"Is this not going to work?" she asks you. "Because you know I'm not going to sleep with you." 

"I don't want to," you say, surprised when you hear it that you actually mean it. "Although if there's something more than kissing we could do--" 

Her eyes go narrower and you feel her finger trace over your lips. 

"Only one thing," she says. "And definitely not today. Whatever's gotten into you isn't about me… or if it is we should break up immediately." 

"Nothing's--" Your voice dies against your teeth. Your chest and guts tighten and your instinct is defensive. "It's nothing, Victoria. So sometimes I'd like to touch my girlfriend, it isn't _my_ fault she's a--" 

"There's boundaries, Norman. And I set those boundaries." Your hand is in hers. "And you'll accept those boundaries." 

And you will, not because you love her, or because you're sensitive to her desires -- because being honest with yourself, neither of those things is the case and you're sure she knows it -- but because you'll accept anything that will help you deal with this sudden onset of sexual frustration that you won't acknowledge the cause of. That you don't know the cause of. There is no cause, in fact. It's simply standard teenage sexual frustration that everyone experiences. 

You're pretty sure that you nod or acknowledge Victoria _somehow_ , because she steps away from you and tells you she's going home. You offer to walk her part of the way, and the two of you part at a park midway between her house and yours. You wanted to take a walk anyway to burn away that fever, and the fresh air is already calming you down. 

"Hey!" says a voice behind you, and when you turn you see familiar blue eyes, wide and pale. Robert smiles at you, wearing a football uniform with your school colors, damp from the grass; sweat beads his forehead and his lips are flushed with color. "Norman, right? Hi." 

"Hi," you say back, almost vomiting the word. You feel like you'd been holding your breath, but you hadn't been. It's just your chest, clenching strange and tight again. You feel sick, looking at him. 

"I didn't know you lived around here," you add after a moment of peculiar silence passes. God forbid the two of you might be in the same neighborhood. He shakes his head, holding a football under his arm. 

"I live about twenty minutes that way -- um -- but I wanted to just, you know, get some air," he says, smiling shyly. "And I have to practice anyway." 

"Right." Your tone is dry. You nod at the ball he's holding. "Football." 

He walks over and suddenly the ball is flying toward you and you catch it in both hands and exhale harshly. It's damp from the grass and god knows what else. You hope he doesn't think you like playing just because you happen to know what a football looks like -- his arms are twice the size of yours and you're wearing a white shirt you pressed yourself with a dark green vest that looked like it'd never seen a wrinkle; there's no mistaking you for an athlete. 

"Uh," is all you say. Then: "I think this is yours?" 

"Oh." He looks a bit disappointed, and you frown. "Yeah, sorry. I thought we could have a catch or something, while you're here. I guess you probably have a lot to do." 

You have nothing to do. It's Friday afternoon and you did all your assignments during your free period and your lunch. You run your tongue over your lips as you think of a lie. 

"I should probably make sure my girlfriend got home safely," you say with a tilt of your head. He takes the ball from your hands, but you still feel the grime and wet from it clinging to your skin. Of all the days to be wearing white. 

"I should call mine too when I get home," he says in a thoughtful tone, brushing his messy bangs from his face. "Since I moved it's been harder to keep in touch." 

"What's she like." 

"She's nice," he says with a smile, then holds the ball up again. "Are you sure you don't want to catch? Or we could do something else." 

"I have to go home and feed my dog," you say, frowning. Your teeth grind and you want to wipe your hands on his throat. You turn from him, sharply. "Nice seeing you." 

He says something as you walk away and at the last moment you decide it's worth hearing. "What?" 

"Maybe we could hang out tomorrow?" He rubs his neck, looking both hopeful and uncertain. You suppose he hasn't made any other friends yet; you're the only person he really knows around here and it's only because you happen to be the Student Body President. Pure chance that you even know this thug's name. "If you aren't busy -- you probably are… I don't know, it's just a thought." 

"I--" You don't even know what 'hanging out' entails. More football? No thank you. Hopefully he's bright enough to have picked up on that message by now. "Call me tomorrow. My number is in the student directory." 

"Okay." Robert smiles at you again more openly this time. "I'll see you later, then. Or not. But maybe." 

"Right." 

You almost run home. Dusk is settling and your father is spectacularly pissed off about something petty and unimportant, no doubt, forcing you to go in through the back door to avoid his wrath. You can always tell when he's lost it because he's audible from the driveway and the dog practically has an aneurysm from barking so much. You lock your door and shut the lights, and already you feel more relaxed. You lay your face against your bedsheets and try to block out the incessant barking of your goddamn dog while you breathe, slowly, deliberately. 

You can let your mind drift when you lay in the darkness. It slows your thoughts, but not in a bad way. You can hear them all, each individual voice instead of a thousand ideas buzzing at your temples all at once. You feel them behind your eyes, at the back of your neck, colors that paint over your eyes when you close them. You know you should change out of your clothes before you're too exhausted to hang them, but you don't, not caring about wrinkles. 

You wake up to knocks, loud and violent on your door. Your face is buried against your pillow, your hair mussed, and you damn well fell asleep in your clothes. No time to be irritated about that now, however. 

" _What?_ " you snap, throwing your shirt off to find another. Dark green, striped. You button it quickly. 

"Why is your door always locked?" Your dad demands, though he doesn't wait for an answer before continuing. There's contempt in his voice. "You've got a call. Some boy. Robert?" 

"Robert?" you echo, innocently. You let yourself think. "Oh. Right. That new kid. Just a _moment._ " You have to put on new pants and brush and gel your hair, though it isn't until after you've done all this you remember this is just a phone call. As you go downstairs you nearly rip the receiver from your father's hand. 

"Robert," you say as you try to ignore your lack of privacy. Your parents don't care what you get up to most of the time so long as you get good grades and don't get arrested, but you never get calls at the house. It makes you wish you could afford a cellphone. "Hi." 

His voice sounds even gentler over the phone, which surprises you, and asks if you'd meet him at the school. You're not really keen on walking two miles today, but you say "All right" anyway and find him waiting for you by the long stretch of bleachers. 

"Hey," Robert says when he sees you, walking over and handing you a paper bag. He's wearing a Black Adam shirt, black with a golden lightning bolt down the front. You look inside the bag and see six hamburgers. "I got lunch if you're hungry. I thought you might be because I know it's a bit of a walk." 

"Generous," you murmur, sitting on the bleachers and unwrapping one. It's greasy and full of cheese and pickles but you eat the entire thing quickly, deciding it's acceptable enough when you've been walking for forty-five minutes without a breakfast. You swallow the last of it before you realize he's watching you, and you give him a narrow glare. "This can't be all you asked me here for." 

"No," he admits, putting the bag down. "Well, I was hoping you'd help me practice, but I know you don't really like that sort of stuff… you're the Student Body President, why should you care about football? But…" 

You lean your chin on your palm, unwrapping another burger. You walked a mile for this, he has no plan beyond wanting your company. It would be flattering if you didn't find it so pathetic. Yet, you find that you don't mind being here making sure he doesn't kill himself running and jumping. At least until you get bored. 

"You'll owe me a favor," you say. "But I _am_ already here." It's warm out and you can already see some sweat glisten on his arms. He smiles at you before he starts sprinting across the field, barely more than a streak of black and gold. You finish your third burger by the time he takes a break, stopping by you heaving breaths. You suppress a smirk at how red his face is. 

"You're doing a good job of not dying so far," you say, passing him a burger. He giggles and nearly inhales it, and then he's on his feet again. He reminds you of a labrador retriever. "Keep it up." 

"One lap with me, please," he says, leaning back and forth on his heels. "It'll be fun and I won't ask again." His nervous energy must be rubbing off on you, because you stand, hands on hips and heaving a sigh. 

You point to the goal post. "There and back. That's all." 

"Okay, that's fair." Robert grins and takes off before you, which sends a spike of competitive fury through your brain that's enough to send you tearing after him. It's warm and you begin to lose stamina quickly even though you're ordinarily a damn good runner, but you're also not dressed for exercise. You collapse by the goal post, sprawled in the grass, and Robert collapses next to you on his stomach. 

Breathe. Breathe. You gasp in air and roll miserably on your side. "God! My stomach is cramping," you hiss, curling. You regret coming here and wonder why on earth you thought he was worth it. "Dammit--" 

"Here, have some water," Robert says, moving a bottle toward you. He looks concerned and that just makes you more angry. You grab the bottle from him and are in the process of opening it when a shadow falls across the grass and makes you glance up. 

Looking down at you from behind red-rimmed, pointed glasses is a blonde woman you've never seen before. Or is she a girl? She looks about your age, but the glasses and pencil skirt are making it hard to tell. You wonder if she's a new student and stand up quickly, smoothing down your shirt and trying to look the part of Student Body President. 

"Can I--" 

"Yes," she says quickly, and your teeth grind the way they do when Victoria interrupts you. You hate being interrupted so you already hate her. "My name is Karla Sofen. I'm going to be a teacher's assistant over at Empire State High School… am I in the right place?"


	2. Caught Up in Your Wheelin' Dealin'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You don't have friends except for your sham boyfriend, and you're completely okay with that. You may have slight social maladjustment outside of a professional environment, but you're okay with that too. Your name is Victoria Hand, and you know _your_ ideas are what's going to carry this school from mediocrity to efficiency even if the Student Body President is the only other person who will acknowledge the fact.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains mild sexual content, notably some vague oral sex. Proceed with caution?

Politics are something you always found interesting -- especially school politics. It had impressed but not surprised you how many people not only knew your name once you were voted Student Body Vice President, but seemed to consider themselves your friend. 

You think it's rather funny. You don't have friends except for your sham boyfriend, and you're completely okay with that. You may have slight social maladjustment outside of a professional environment, but you're okay with that too. Your name is Victoria Hand, and you know _your_ ideas are what's going to carry this school from mediocrity to efficiency even if the Student Body President is the only other person who will acknowledge the fact. 

The President, as it happens, is also your sham boyfriend. His name is Norman Osborn, and he's a sham because you're gay, which is why up until today you've not let things between you get any further than kissing or hand holding. Today, of course, is the day you allowed for a little more. 

Norman Osborn likes to talk. He likes to talk _a lot._ As his Vice President, sham girlfriend, and chief confidante, you know this fact better than possibly any other person. "Norman," you had said. "You're good with your mouth." 

And he doesn't seem to mind being used for this purpose in the slightest. His head is currently between your thighs, and it feels too good to fixate on how oral sex between sham significant others is probably a bad idea. Preoccupied, he's also incredibly easy to ignore this way. 

You feel your nose wrinkle and you cover a gasp with your hand. God. This might be disgusting if it weren't so awkward. He's disturbingly adept for someone who admitted to you he was a virgin. 

"Okay," you say with an exhale. "Now that's out of the way, I need you to sign these student union forms so we can take them to administration." 

"You must be joking," he says, sitting up and wiping his mouth. You roll your eyes at him as you slide your skirt back in place; what did he want from you, cuddles and a prom date? 

"No." You pick up the stapled papers from your nightstand and throw them at him. That seems to get the message across, because he grudgingly uncaps a pen and scrawls his name by all the x's. _Was that so hard?_ "You should be glad I don't have more for you. I've been taking care of everything while you show that new teacher's assistant around the school." 

 

You like your class schedule. Your classes distract you from the stress of your Council duties, and you and Norman share only one class twice a week. You relish the distance considering you spend more time than you'd like to with him outside of class. 

When you get to your Ethics class you notice you have a new teacher. Well, a teacher's assistant, specifically; her name is Karla Sofen according to the blackboard, and she only looks older than you by a year or two. You sit down near the front as you usually do, taking care to observe how casually she leans against the desk, dressed in red, as she reads something on a clipboard. Her hair is long and blonde, spilling over her shoulders and down her back with a couple of loose strands hanging in her face that inspire you to brush your own bangs back. 

"We all know about virtue and vice," she says to the class, sliding her glasses down her nose. "Or at least by now we're all supposed to. Morality is such a _complicated_ matter it's almost insulting to think that a class can explain it." 

You smile as you jot down quick notes, watching the way she strides around as she speaks and the movements her mouth makes. Her voice is deeper than you might think looking at her, sharp and calm yet perfectly suited to her. Karla passes out an evaluation with 50 moral and ethical dilemmas listed and numbered which you are supposed to answer with honestly what would you do. You are incredibly confident in your own ethics, and finish the paper before class ends. 

"Lucky you. No homework," Karla says as you bring the sheet to her desk. There's the faintest hint of blue makeup on her eyes, bringing out their color. You smile with confidence despite a fleeting urge to hide behind your bangs. 

"Lucky me," you agree. "I have enough work to do as it is." 

"I suppose you'll be busy with the Student Body President," she says. "I know how overworked you two are."

Somehow you'd forgotten from the start of class to now that Norman Osborn existed. You manage to nod. "But efficient," you add. 

 

It isn't true that you'll be busy with Norman this afternoon, because you don't like bringing him to your home. Although it helps to keep them in the dark, your parents always make it incredibly obvious they don't like having him around the house. You remember the time they had an extended conversation in Korean insulting him while you were both in the room and he went on writing his proposal for better lab equipment, oblivious. 

Anyway, you're not ready to invite him over again. He might get the wrong idea after yesterday and you want to deal with _that_ even less. Every day after you school you like to organize all your notes from the day in a separate binder, separated by subject and marked with colored tape if there's something specific you need to go over. If ever there's something you don't understand the first time, you consult your notes -- and other sources, if necessary -- until it's burned into your mind by the time you next attend class. You leave complicated math formulas and grammar structures in the dust. 

Needless to say your homework tends to either take either a long time, or no time at all. Once you finish organizing your notes you only have reading to do, and once _that's_ done you hardly know what to do with yourself. You glance over at the poster from your and Norman's campaign, which hangs indiscreetly on the inner side of your door. You did this in the hopes it would discourage your parents from invading your privacy as much, which surprisingly it has. It isn't a racial thing, you're certain; though your mother is Korean your father isn't, and neither is the type to care about that sort of thing. 

No, it became quite obvious the second time you brought Norman over that they just don't respond well to his arrogant and insincere attitude. You have to defend his honor just enough so that it seems like you genuinely like him and are not just dating him so that when he graduates you will have a foot in door to take over as Student Body President. Perhaps you can come out after that happens, but before is too heavy a risk for you. Your stomach churns uncomfortably now, looking at that poster. 

 

He's five minutes late coming to school the next day. Ordinarily five minutes would be nothing, except he's never late and you wanted to stop by the administration office with him before class, not after. He looks sweaty when you see him and his hands have dirt on the palms. 

"Norman? What--" 

"My dog died," he says through clenched teeth. His eyes are bloodshot but narrowed, intense and you feel like you can hear the blood throbbing in his temples. "I had to bury him this morning before school." 

"Sorry to hear that," you say, unsure of what else to say. You step back from him. The expression on his face is more determined than depressed, but you've never seen Norman Osborn look sad once in all the days you've known him. You're not sure it's an expression he's capable of. "During your break I want to drop off these forms at the office, can you be there for that?" 

His eyes swivel, then relax. "Of course," he says, and his voice is all confidence like usual. 

Actually, it isn't so bad you have to wait to go to the office. You have Ethics next, and you'd rather spend your time watching Karla Sofen lecture on the malleability of moral philosophy in current government as well as classic literature than stand next to Norman looking attentive while he rambles on about work you mostly did. Karla, incidentally, has her hair up in a ponytail today, and her lips are a dark shade of red that draws your attention like a magnet. Five minutes into the class and you've already relaxed, simply appreciating the fact of her existence. So much in fact you aren't certain how thorough your notes are compared to normal once the bell rings. 

You hurry out of the class so that Karla doesn't catch you looking, and you find Norman leaning against the lockers outside looking exhausted. "Are you all right?" you ask, wary. You know he has up days and down days, but you've never been witness to the 'down' more than once since you met him last year. He nods, rubbing his forehead. 

"Give the forms over and I'll take them," he says, impatiently. "You go on to lunch and I'll meet you." 

You aren't going to argue with that. You give the forms over and go on to lunch, holding your folders close and mentally counting how much money you remember being in your purse. You sit alone at the table that you and Norman usually sit at with a turkey sandwich and an apple, ready to wait until Norman joins you before a voice interrupts your thoughts. 

"May I sit here?" You look up, and it's Karla. 

"Uh," is all you say. Karla sits down anyway and unpacks her own food, smiling at you. 

"I've been wanting to talk to you. You're the only one that seems really invested in what I have to say so far…" she begins, folding her arms as she leans nearer to you. Her glasses make her gaze much sharper, but you're grateful for a reason not to look at her red and glossy lips. "Maybe it's because I'm still new to this school -- I am trying to give it time. I'm very impatient." 

"I think ethics is a fascinating subject. Especially the way you teach it. It's a concept that goes over most people's heads in today's society, and high schoolers don't always have the most open minded approach to new ideas."

"But you're different." You feel your cheeks heat up. "Thank God we have you as Vice President of the Student Body. I've been paying attention to what kind of information comes through the administration offices." 

"Um. Yes, I am." 

"And," she says, "confidentially, I feel it's very selfless what you're doing to help the president." 

"Sorry?" 

"You know what I mean. To hide that's he--" she raises your eyebrows and your feel your cheeks grow hot. 

"Um. Norman isn't gay," you say quickly, pushing your glasses up your nose. You want to squash any possible rumors before they happen -- it's practically part of your job and Norman has the bad habit of wanting to get even. 

Karla looks at you a bit blankly and then laughs behind her hand so that you can't see her mouth. 

"I was going to say 'bipolar'," she says. You say nothing and bite into your apple. 

"Oh," you manage after chewing and swallowing, having put your response off long enough. "Well. That's not something I'm qualified to discuss. On or off the record." 

"I understand. I didn't come over here to discuss Norman Osborn anyway. It's _you_ I'd like to get to know better." You swear Karla bats her eyes at you when she says that, but attribute it to your own mediocre eyesight. She's at least a year older than you, maybe two, and you aren't the type of person to delude yourself. 

Luckily, at that moment your table for two abruptly becomes a table for three as Norman joins you, slamming his lunch down. Karla smiles at him without missing a beat, but your own heart jumped in your chest and you feel again like your cheeks must be betraying you in their color. You can already map out how this is going to go; you have memorized Norman's derision. His eyes narrow, his lips curl back slightly to show his bared teeth, his nose wrinkles, his fingers clench. You run your tongue over your lips, watching all this occur, but then he smiles and holds his hand out to Karla. 

"Hello, Karla." His tongue runs over his upper lip. "I didn't realize you and Victoria were so close." 

"Yes," she purrs, and you can't help but note the way her voice curls around the word. "There's a lot you don't realize, I'm sure. What took you so long to join us?" 

"I got caught up in a discussion," Norman says idly. "Nothing important. Robert wanted to hear about my dog." 

"Oh yes, I heard that it died. How sad for you." 

The sarcastic way she says it makes you smile inwardly despite yourself. It's a relief, however irrational, that she doesn't seem too impressed with him. You know why, but you'd rather not think about it. Belligerently you remind yourself she's a teacher's assistant, and you're just the Student Body Vice-President, but in your head you see yourself stroking her silky hair and taking her glasses off. 

 

"Are you sure you don't want me to walk you home? We haven't been spending much time together lately," you ask after school, walking alongside Norman. He's come a long way since that morning when he'd looked like death had warmed over, now looking as refreshed and crisp as he did every other day. He doesn't answer, and you wonder if he didn't hear you. 

"Norman?" 

"Hold my hand," he tells you, holding his out. He glances over at that new kid, Robert, as he walks. Preoccupied, you wonder, in his efforts to impress him for reasons you haven't examined. It's simply political to be on good terms with the popular, athletic A-students. "I'll walk you. Kiss me at the gate." 

"Right," you agree, looking forward as you take his hand in yours. You see Karla walking ahead of you and her eyes meet yours for a moment, before she looks at your interlocked hands. Your cheeks heat up and you look away. 

At your gate, you kiss him and he kisses back, chaste with the barest hint of tongue. When he gives your butt a short squeeze you push him away with a terse, "See you tomorrow," and he stalks off. You hate the way he walks, the powerful arrogance that asserts itself to the world in front of him, like he thinks obstacles should clear themselves out of his way. You hate it because you can't do it yourself, your confidence will never look like his. 

As you turn to go inside you feel a hand on your shoulder. 

"Forget something, Norman?" You turn, impatiently, but it's not Norman. It's Karla. Part of you knew that, you decide as you look at her. You just wanted to pretend you didn't. 

She looks immaculate even though you know your house must be out of her way, since you've never seen her around here -- maybe she drove, but you can't imagine why. Her eyes are cold and her smile is sharp. She makes you dizzy, and not precisely in a good way. Being alone with her both thrills you and sends an anxious prickle up your neck. 

"Why do you do it?" She asks, standing beside you. The way her hand rests on her hip reminds you of Norman and it makes your stomach coil. Her legs are bare under her skirt save for knee-high socks; you take the time to observe and let your anxiety pass. 

"Do what?" Your voice is as professional and clipped as you can make it. 

"You know what," she says. You purse your lips. "Norman. It must disgust you." 

"I don't see how it's any of your business," you murmur, watching her lips again. She leans close to you. 

"It's all right if you're gay," she says in a tone that you can't decide is patronizing or not but it makes your jaw click nonethless. "I'm gay too." 

Her tone is so sure of itself that, irrationally, you don't believe her. No… not irrationally. You've seen the way she looks at men, and it's nothing like the way she's looking at you. You don't trust the way she looks at you like she's trying to figure out a math problem. 

"No," you say in disagreement, or maybe you only think it. She kisses you, pushing you gently against your gate which creaks on its hinge, and you can't remember if you ever said anything at all. Her lips and tongue are warm and you think that she's like a fire, beautiful, tempting, but painful to the touch, somehow uncontrollably destructive. Her hair cascades over your hands like water. 

"Enough," you gasp. She moves away, her lipstick somehow still immaculate. You can tell without having to see it that your own is a mess, you can feel the grease of it. "Spare me your mind-games, Karla. I know when someone is trying to use me." 

"Oh, how sharp." Her hands are on her hips again, and she smirks at you. It's vicious. Your cheeks feel hot again, chest tight, but it's from annoyance this time. The temptation to slap her is so high it makes your palms itch. _"You_ really should be President, not that closeted nutcase you let order you around. One only has to look at you to know who the more efficient person is." 

"Shut up," you snap. "Who do you think you are? Who do you think I am? Whatever you think you're going to accomplish you're not using me to do it." Turning your back on her you storm up your front steps, refusing to look back though you can sense she's still there, probably watching you with that same cold amusement you'd seen before she kissed you. 

You slam your front door and throw your bag at the staircase. You're more upset than you realize and you don't know how that happened. You want to rationalize it as dehydration or PMS but it's neither of those things, you're too logical to fall into denial. "FUCK!" 

"Vicky? What's the matter?" It's your mother, voice heavy with parental concern. You hurry up the stairs. 

"Nothing!" 

"Is it Norman? Did you two have a fight? You can talk to me if you broke up…" 

Like you would give her the satisfaction, your parents have wanted you and Norman to break up ever since they first met him. All _you_ really want to do is go upstairs and not think about anyone, but you have no idea how to keep yourself occupied on your own. 

Sometimes you think that it's such a pity that you don't drink. A bit of wine feels like it would solve all your problems. Instead you lie back and stare at the ceiling, contemplating today and tomorrow, but the problem with not wanting to think about things is that it only makes you think about them more. Your brain has always been your worst enemy, keeping you from ignoring logic so you can enjoy simple things like Karla Sofen's lips. You wish you could ignore the chills she gave you, but once you noticed them it was a lost cause. 

Never, you reassure yourself. Bittersweet maybe, but you know you're in the right. You almost always are. It was more important to _know_ a situation than to ignore warning signs, that's how accidents happen. You've always been a good judge of character, which leaves you with very little friends. Given enough time you zero in on their flaws and determine if they're worth weathering. 

"Bitch," you whisper to yourself, sadly.


	3. World Inside My Head

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You can't remember if you took any before you fell asleep like you're supposed to, so you take a double dose. In your mind, there is no too much of a good thing, and they're definitely a good thing. Two pills down the hatch and your anxiety goes away. Four… well… 
> 
> You usually spend your mornings as you are now, going around the house and turning on every light. Your name is Robert Reynolds, and sometimes you're afraid of the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter include drug abuse (prescription) and mild sexual content (lots of humping). Proceed with caution?

There's a shrill noise somewhere just beyond your consciousness, seeping into your dreams. _Breep breep breep_ , it goes, and suddenly the world around you is in color again. You sit up and switch your alarm clock off, your breath coming slow but steady. Your mouth tastes sour when you run your tongue over your lips and you realize how thirsty you are. 

You hadn't meant to fall asleep. It's dark outside when you glance out the window, and your clock says 6:45. Sleeping isn't something you particularly like doing because you always wake up feeling dead, but the pills you take make you tired at the most inopportune times and restless others. You can't remember if you took any before you fell asleep like you're supposed to, so you take a double dose. In your mind, there is no too much of a good thing, and they're definitely a good thing. Two pills down the hatch and your anxiety goes away. Four… well… 

You usually spend your mornings as you are now, going around the house and turning on every light. Your name is Robert Reynolds, and sometimes you're afraid of the dark. You have to restrain yourself from calling Norman or Lindy, reminding yourself that your desire to hear a voice doesn't make it any less early. 

Norman Osborn is the first friend you made at Empire State High School. He's not the kind of person you would have thought you'd be friends with, but he's clever, and listens to you when you talk. You've never felt alienated when talking with Norman as you have with the other members of the football team, even if you can tell your restlessness perturbs him sometimes. Lindy Lee is your girlfriend. You haven't seen her in person since you moved, but the two of you talk on the phone and email each other when you can. 

She was your girlfriend, anyway. As you turn on the last light you remember that she broke up with you last night, and that was when you took your pills and fell asleep. Suddenly you feel much less restless and want, instead, to crawl back into bed under your blankets. 

Somehow you make it to class anyway, and sit through Ethics in a daze. You're a good student when it comes to maths and sciences -- it just clicks in your head and ignites your sense of adventure -- but ethics and psychology make your head hurt. You write down everything the teacher's assistant says since you don't know what will be important to know later. The TA, Karla, has been really helpful ever since she started. 

"Is something the matter, Robert?" She asks you after class, pulling you aside. You nod mutely, only speaking after she continues to look at you. 

"Um. My girlfriend broke up with me," you say, a little stilted. "She said we weren't working any more. Our lives didn't fit together anymore. I… it's my fault for moving, but I think this maybe goes back farther." 

"I'm sorry," she says smoothly. You feel slightly soothed. "How much medication did you take this morning?" 

"I don't remember," you lie. She pets your cheek. 

"You should talk to someone about it," she says gently. "Someone that will listen to you. You have friends, I'm sure… any _close_ friends?" 

"You know I… just one, here." You know she knows you and Norman are friends; she saw you two on the football field her first day. You wonder if she forgot. "I don't think he'd care." 

"If he's a close friend, surely he'll be interested," she offers, raising her eyebrows. "Anything to help you. Who wouldn't want to help you when you need it, Robert dear? Norman is such a empathetic guy."

 

"She what?" Norman says indignantly, over the telephone. You hadn't wanted to bring Lindy up during school, but hadn't been able to find Norman after classes. He usually went home with his girlfriend Victoria. "Unbelievable. Once again the fickleness of women displays itself." 

"Don't say that, Norman," you say, a little stern. You have the house to yourself -- your mother is rarely home during the day. "We loved each other, but I -- I'm sure it was difficult, s-she said it was like I was a different person." 

"Are you?" He asks, abruptly. "A different person? Why should she say that?" 

"Of course I'm not." Surreptitiously you take a pill. You're hoping the act of swallowing will stop you from crying, but it's a futile effort. You really do cry too much. "I'm the same person…" 

"You're Robert Reynolds," Norman says, decisively and (perhaps you're imagining it) reassuringly. "So prove it." 

"Would you like to come by my house tomorrow? We could have a catch," you suggest. "Or watch a movie, or something… I need to do something tomorrow." Or you'll probably come home and sit in the dark. "I have practice, but I can meet you after." 

"Are you crying?" Norman leers. You inhale and wipe your eyes. 

"No." 

The next day after practice you're energetic, heaving breath as you drink from your water bottle and shuck your helmet off. You haven't left the field yet, you're enjoying the feel of the wind against your sweaty forehead. You lean on the bleachers for a moment to catch your breath and wait for the lightheadedness to pass. 

"We must stop meeting this way," says a voice behind you. You look over and see Norman and smile at him, though it comes out as a grimace. Sometimes your face just does that. 

"Hey," you say. "Let's go." 

"Don't you want to shower first?" He looks at you like he's disappointed. "Your hair is matted flat down; it looks nice when it's _clean._ " 

"I'll shower later," you say. You just want to get home to your room; you get anxious if you're away too long. "I've got my books all ready -- let's go." 

Your bedroom is neat, though sometimes it isn't. You're too anxious to leave it messy most of the time, but sometimes you're too drowsy or far away to clean it. You watch Norman survey your bookshelves as you peel your shirt off. 

"You seem in better spirits," Norman says idly, sitting down on your bed. "Over Lindy already?" 

You look at him and smile-grimace. "Of course not. I've been trying not to think about it." 

"Maybe you've got someone else in mind already," he continues, and you feel your chest tighten slightly, unsure of what he's trying to imply. That you're unfaithful? You'd never cheat on Lindy. Not that it mattered, anymore. You sit next to him weightlessly, your head starting to hurt. 

"Are you okay?" He asks, far away. 

"Yeah." You close your eyes. "Just tired." 

"Well, don't sleep," says Norman. "I didn't come all this way just to tuck you in. Go take a shower or something." 

"'Kay," you murmur, standing up and heading over toward the bathroom. "I won't be long." 

It's awkward, showering while your friend is over, but you mean it when you say that you won't be long. The hot water clouds up your head and prickles your spine, waking you up. After a few minutes under you realize you hear a voice under the sound of water, and a moment after that you realize Norman is in the bathroom with you, talking to you as you shower. 

You exhale quickly and turn off the water. 

"--And I can't ever get a word in edgewise when she begins to go on about her mother, you wouldn't guess it. It's hilarious, honestly. Lately of course she's been complaining about Karla S--" 

"Norman?" You interrupt him, peering out from behind the shower curtain. He's leaning on the sink and looks over at you nonchalantly. 

"Robert, I was talking." 

"Sorry," you mutter quickly, grabbing a towel and pulling it behind the curtain to wrap around yourself. "Can you give me a second?" 

He sighs loudly but leaves the room, and you step out when you hear the door click itself closed. It isn't that you don't want him seeing you naked… exactly, because seeing classmates naked in the shower is just another day in the high school athlete's life. He'd snuck up on you, that was all. 

You get dressed and go back into your room, where Norman's sitting on the bed waiting while he watches your pet goldfish, Scout, swim around in circles. You smile slightly and sit next to him. He turns to look at you, his eyes so serious it scares you for a moment. 

"Why do you keep grimacing?" He asks. You grimace. 

"The medication I'm taking," you admit, licking your upper lip. He scoffs at your side and you say no more about it, lying back so that your head rests on your pillow. "I've been taking more since Lindy broke up with me… it's easier to be tired, you know, than -- I don't know." 

Norman looks at you for a long time without saying anything, his eyes opened roundly. His forehead looks sweaty, but you consider it might be spray from your shower. You watch him back, and all of a sudden he's leaning over you, his wiry body casting shadows across yours. 

"I don't think you should think about her anymore," he says, touching your face. You inhale slowly, eyes fixed upon his. You notice for the first time how very blue they are, like yours, but darker… 

He's breathing a lot harder than you are when he brushes your damp hair from your forehead and leans closer, biting his lips briefly before he puts them against yours. You flinch for a moment, your fingers twitching. Despite his suggestion you _do_ think about Lindy, it's impossible not to remember kissing her when he carefully knits his fingers into your hair. Yet, his kiss is much rougher, all teeth and tongue when Lindy's lips had always been gentle and moist. 

You put your hands on his hips, feeling the lean cords of muscle beneath his clothes. He pants into your mouth and ruts against your hips, pulling your legs around his waist as he feels for your zipper. You consider speaking but only manage to gasp noises at him. 

"Ah." 

"Hm. 

_"Ah."_

His hands are cold on your skin. He shifts more so that his groin is rubbing against yours, clumsy and explosive. You're both still clothed, underwear exposed so that your skin is only separated from his by thin layers of cotton. 

You murmur his name and he kisses you again, teeth tugging on your lip. It stings, but you don't mind it. You're overly aware that you don't know what to do with your hands, moving them aimlessly along his waist and back, but he spares you from having to make a decision when he lets go of you and leaps off. You sit up. 

"Uh," is all you say. Then: "Um." He looks at you, frowning as if he just got caught stealing. You know he's about to leave, and you want to ask him not to. 

You don't, and he leaves after the two of you share a short conversation about your chemistry assignment. Pointedly, neither of you look at each other. 

 

You're very tired the next day, but lately you're always tired. 

"Robert? How are you feeling?" You glance up from your notebook and see Victoria Hand standing beside you, her eyebrows furrowed behind your glasses. 

"Fine," you say. You wonder idly how long you sat there staring forward -- you certainly hadn't been writing anything. You look at the paper and see that you'd been drawing spirals on the page with your pen. "How are you?" 

"You looked out of it," she says, evading your question. "You should try sleeping more. Or is it your--" She pantomimes taking a pill. You stare at her blankly and her cheeks flush slightly. "Karla mentioned it." 

You frown, but her mentioning your pills reminds you to take one when she leaves. You realize you've probably been taking too many lately, but now you can't help yourself. Even when they make you drowsy and nervous the simple act of taking them seems to calm you down. 

"I didn't sleep very well," you say. "I haven't been, but I need to get my energy up before my game tonight." 

"You could take a nap in the nurse's office," Victoria suggests. "You didn't hear it from me, of course." 

A nap sounds like a great idea. You nod dimly. "I think I will." 

As you're lying down you think about yesterday afternoon, remembering Norman over you. You slip your bottle of pills from your pocket and swallow two of them and let your eyes close. 

You wake up abruptly to Karla's face, staring down at you. You aren't sure how much time has passed, your mind is fuzzy with sleep and vague dreams of a creature in the furthest depths of the ocean, hands, and thousands of eyes. 

"Did you just kiss me?" You ask, feeling your mouth. It's damp. She smiles and pats your head and you grimace. 

"That's how you wake sleeping beauties, isn't it?" She says, her voice so smooth it makes your cheeks burn. She leans in to kiss you again and you flinch away from her. 

Several thoughts go in your head at once: First, your hair is mussed and your t-shirt is wrinkled, second that she's your teacher (sort of -- she's still about your age), third that you're in the nurse's office. You aren't sure what to say to her, and the silence rests heavy between the two of you. 

She leans over you. "What's the matter?" Her voice is soft, but she's smiling. "Aren't you over your girlfriend yet?" 

You're just short of hyperventilating. Instead of answering her you look at your watch, and with relief notice it's about time for you to be getting ready for your game. Your mouth is too dry to answer her, anyway, in contrast with your palms which are so sweaty you rub them on your Black Adam shirt. You leap away from her and make a bee-line to the locker rooms. 

The other footballers ask you where you'd been and you mutter an excuse, barely listening. You wonder as you undress yourself if Norman will be in the bleachers watching you play, possibly with his chin resting upon his manicured fingernails, his other hand entwined in Victoria's. 

You put on your helmet, and the next few hours are a blur. It's raining and every step you take almost trips you face-first into wet grass and mud, but you keep yourself on your feet because if you fall you'll get trampled. The helmet shades your eyes in a way you always liked; it keeps the rain out of them and obscures your gaze so that your opponents can't see your eyes, which everyone always describes as "gentle" and "bright." 

When you're out here, you don't want to be either of those things. You want to slam people over, dig your fingernails into the ball, let yourself go in a frenzy of adrenaline. They call you "Bullet Bob" on the field because of the way you can be pointed in any direction and fired -- you streak across the field like you're flying, clutching the ball so tightly it feels like it's a part of you. Someone tries to tackle you -- you slam the ball in their face and keep running. 

It's no exaggeration that you're a completely different person out here. 

When you're running is when you're thinking clearest. You think about Lindy and the wrenching pain she'd left you with when she broke up with you. You think about her accusations and think, obstinately, _I'm Robert Reynolds!_ to prove her wrong. You think about Karla Sofen and her big mouth, her cold eyes that see through you and the casual armchair therapy she whispers to you before you leave her class. You think about her kissing you while you slept, and then you think of Norman. Norman and his spidery fingers, sharp cheekbones and soft, predatory voice. 

 

Your efforts aren't enough; your team still loses. You sit by the goal post in the rain long after everyone else leaves, watching the rain slide down your helmet in front of your vision in cold sheets. You know you should head home, but you've been sitting there so long you've gone numb. From behind you, someone takes your helmet off and your hair is suddenly pelt with thousands of tiny needles. 

"You're wet," Norman says. 

"I know," you say. You look at him and observe the way the rain is making his clothes stick to his body and how glossy it makes his already-sleek hair. "So are you." 

"Well, I thought I should make sure you didn't kill yourself out here. You've been sitting here for an hour," Norman scoffs, crossing his arms. You pull him close by the arm and kiss him there, the rain making it hard to tell his lips from yours. You're so cold you can barely feel each other. 

He pushes you so that you're leaning back against the goalpost, and you part your lips for him. He tangles his hands in your hair again and you feel him shivering as you cup his hips. Still, the idea of going inside seems ludicrous. You want to stay out there and let yourself get lost in the cold and darkness with his mouth and hands upon you. You sit up and push him into the grass, leaning over him so that you can kiss him harder. He mutters something distasteful about the mud, but bites at your lips. 

"Robert," a voice from above you says softly. Suddenly your skin feels even colder. "You should get inside before you get sick. You should know better than to endanger fellow students, President." 

Norman's already looking over your shoulder and you glance up, but you already know Karla's standing above you. Her umbrella is white, a startling bright burst against the grey sky, and it hurts your eyes. She's holding a camera and smiling. Beneath you, Norman swears.


	4. Lips Like Morphine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You're the teacher's assistant in ESHS's Ethics class, but have basically been teaching the class since the regular professor stopped showing up to school. You suspect it had something to do with all the student clinic's morphine being found in his desk; he claimed not to have put it there, but the staff listened to your concerned witness testimony and he hadn't been seen since, nor had a replacement been hired. It suited you just fine; you much preferred working with your own curriculum. 
> 
> Some people might call you amoral.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains some sexual content (some humping) as well as allusions to violence, mental illness and drug abuse. Proceed with caution?

It's 7 AM in the morning, and you're rifling in John Aaron's cupboards for alcohol because you _know_ he has some, and it's become something of a tradition for you to take something home with you after a night with someone. You settle on a bottle of Jack Daniels, which gets slipped into your purse before you slip out the door and leave his life forever. 

You're already showered and changed; you keep a fresh pair of clothing in your bag at all times in case of emergencies and you're looking incredibly sharp this morning in your white skirt and golden blouse, patterned closely with tiny diamond shapes. You had stayed over at John's for three simple reasons: one, he was reasonably attractive, two, he didn't strike you as particularly clever, and three, he lived much closer to Empire State High School than you did, allowing you to sleep in this morning. You got him spectacularly drunk and he passed out asleep almost immediately, leaving you to your leisure. Your name is Karla Sofen, and you're a master of getting your own way. 

You're the teacher's assistant in ESHS's Ethics class, but have basically been teaching the class since the regular professor stopped showing up to school. You suspect it had something to do with all the student clinic's morphine being found in his desk; he claimed not to have put it there, but the staff listened to your concerned witness testimony and he hadn't been seen since, nor had a replacement been hired. It suited you just fine; you much preferred working with your own curriculum. 

Some people might call you a sociopath. As someone who reads a lot of psychology books in your spare time, you would probably smirk at those people and ask if they called everyone who intimidated them sociopaths. In fact, you'd said exactly that to the Student Body President, Norman Osborn, after you'd caught him and running back Robert Reynolds humping on the football field. You would disagree that your enjoyment of blackmail makes you a sociopath, but if it did you suppose you would be guilty. 

"Karla, I strongly suggest you reconsider whatever it is you've got concocted in your twisted little head and give me your camera. You really don't want to upset Norman," Victoria Hand, Student Body Vice-President, says to you before your class starts. "He plays dirty when he's upset." 

There's something about Victoria Hand that makes you bristle. She's a well-put together girl, always dressed in dark colors and knee-length skirts and staring intently on whomever she's speaking to with her thick-lashed almond-shaped eyes. You don't care for the way she threatens you, nor for the way she doesn't ever act threatened _by_ you. 

Still, she's an intriguing girl. 

"Oh, he can get dirtier?" you say blithely, smiling. "I don't have to give you my camera. I'm surprised that you think that I would." 

"I'm serious," she says. "I'm warning you for your own sake." 

"If I were you I would be more concerned about whether or not this conversation was going to start affecting my grade." 

She narrows her eyes at you challengingly, but walks away. You sit back, content. 

Victoria and Norman are a strange pair. You knew soon after you first met her that she was a lesbian, and Norman, while not _gay_ , certainly couldn't be called straight either. Yet they protected one another and seemed to genuinely be friends despite the obvious sham of their relationship. You find it both endearing and sickening, mostly the latter. 

Why on earth should someone as smart as Victoria Hand try to protect someone that used his intelligence in all the wrong ways like Norman Osborn did? She would be infinitely better off with him out of the picture. 

You consider this thought with pleasure during your class as you watch your students ( _yours_ ) taking the exam that you went through the trouble of finding on the previous teacher's hard drive. You sit back and think some more. 

You, of course, are not gay. You like men far too much to be a lesbian, although you can't deny the consideration you've given to the thought of kissing women. You had done so with Victoria almost on a whim; it hadn't been purely because you wanted to catch her off guard, you'd simply been struck by the intense desire to kiss her. She'd been an incredibly poor sport about it. 

After class you usually talk to Robert Reynolds, a _classic_ early-onset schizophrenic if you've ever seen one. He pops pills like there's no tomorrow and when he thinks no one is looking, but you don't miss much. At least they're still prescription. Today, however, he hurries out of the classroom before you can. That would annoy you on another day, but you've gotten what you needed from him for now -- you don't mind waiting for him to warm up to you again. He would, eventually, once he got over this little camera incident. For someone so high on the high school status food chain, Robert has very few friends. You've heard whispers of his teammates apprehension of being around him, and you've been tempted to add your own whispers to the wind. 

You haven't, though, and you're an awfully good person for it. No one gives you enough credit for decency. He really owes you a lot; without your careful engineering, he and Norman would have never progressed beyond coy glances and hushed lascivious innuendoes. 

As you're thinking about that, Victoria corners you again by the teacher's lounge. Literally, she corners you -- your back is to the wall and she leans herself by her arm so that you have no easy means of escape. She looks left, then right, causing you to assume she is about to speak in horrible cliches, like: _"It's not safe"_ or _"It's quiet here… a little too quiet"_ but instead she says: " _Listen_ , you stuck-up, _manipulative_ little bitch, I'm only going to say this one more time--"

You exhale in her face and bite your lower lip coyly. 

"I hope you're not about to threaten me, Victoria." 

You smile as her cheeks redden. She backs off from you, but snatches your purse out of your hands -- "Hey!" you interject -- and dumps it out on the floor. You just barely manage to catch your Jack Daniels bottle in time before it shatters, motivated more by your desire to drink it later than your desire not to get caught with liquor at school. Still, your wallet, your notepads, your pens, your phone, your glasses case, your tampons, and of course, your camera all lay strewn on the clean tiles. You move to step on Victoria's hand as she's already bent over, but she grabs the camera before you can. She holds it up and looks at you smugly. 

"That's more like it," she says. You narrow your eyes at her and take the cap off your liquor bottle. 

"You should give that back," you say slowly. "Before I'm forced to report you for underage drinking on school property." 

"Wha--" 

You splash her face with the whisky. She leaps back, shouting and dropping the camera. You're only able to enjoy the deeper flush to her cheeks and the sticky way her hair is now clinging to her cheeks because she grabs the bottle from you and dumps the rest of it over your head. 

Needless to say, you both end up having to leave early, because you're wet and smell like a pub. You wring your hair out outside and watch Victoria shaking hers dry, and walk over to your car. 

"Need a ride?" you ask, and when she looks over at you it's obvious there's a word much sharper than 'bitch' on her tongue. She keeps it to herself and flips her hair back, beginning to walk home by herself. 

 

You spend the rest of your afternoon soaking in a warm tub. The whisky in your hair gives the water a scent that's mildly intoxicating, but barely any more than just the steam would have been. You're annoyed that your day hadn't progressed as planned, and curious about what Victoria seemed so certain Norman would do. 

Sighing, you soak your hair. You're not one to admit defeat, but it's Victoria Hand that you shouldn't be pushing away. She and Norman run the school in no uncertain terms, but it's Norman who does most of the spokesman-ship, planning, and legwork and Victoria who does most of the scheduling and paperwork, and the latter is what you want access to. Paperwork meant valuable information in hardcopy. 

Begrudgingly, you decide you'll give her your film and the pictures you printed out tomorrow as a sign of goodwill. You can always find something else on Norman Osborn; a boy like that both builds up his own empire and then destroys it with the same two hands. You can try to suffer him as President for the rest of the year. 

You review your photos while you dry your hair, sitting on your bed in your underwear. It feels criminal to hand them over, they're the sort of photos political scandals far beyond the realm of high schools are born. Even in the rain Robert's uniform number is clear, his blonde hair curling at the ends from the wind and water. Norman's face is visible enough in Robert's shadow to be recognizable, and so is the class ring on his finger. You fold them into your purse regretfully. 

 

_"Excuse me?"_ For a minute you cannot believe what you are hearing. The principal looks at you before he carefully repeats himself. 

"I'm sorry, Karla, but we've received some concerns about your conduct with some of the students. You're a TA, you understand -- there are certain boundaries we must uphold," he drones. "And unfortunately we have to suspend you temporarily--" The way his tongue hits that word, you know there's an _or permanently_ hiding behind it. "--While we conduct investigations." 

"You must be joking," you snap, barely caring for politeness. "Whatever nimrod told you I was fooling around with other students must be mixing up meth in Chemistry class. Do you really believe _them?"_

You sit on his desk and smile emphatically. He sighs. 

"I don't need to, the investigation will take care of that. Please leave the school grounds," he says, not looking at you. You stand and stalk out of his office, slamming the door. 

Oh, you know exactly who was behind this one. You know that behind Robert and Victoria, the students you _did_ kiss, stands a vindictive, slick haired little snitch. He's the only one with enough weight in this school to sway the principal against you, and when you walk by him in the hallway the calm, smug look he gives you back only confirms your suspicions. 

You look back at him, equally calm, and open your purse. It's between classes and students are milling by both of you, casting curious glances now and then at what must appear to look like an old-fashioned Western stand-off. You hold the photos up making sure Norman can see them, you smile, you walk over to the bulletin board and tack one up over the homecoming poster. 

The rest you throw over your shoulder into the crowded hallway as you walk out the front doors, letting them fall where they would. The sun illuminates your hair as you walk to your car, but you don't want to drive home. You simply sit in the driver's seat, for once at a lost for what to do next. You don't know how long you sit there for, but when you glance up Victoria is looking in your window. 

"Karla?" 

You open your window enough to throw the photo negatives at her feet. She looks at them for a long time, then at you, and you notice she's annoyed but not pissed off. You also notice her hair is highlighted with two long streaks of red on either side of her face, a bright dash of rebellion in her otherwise professional nearly-monochromatic ensemble. 

"What the hell happened?" 

"Well," you say slowly, turning your eyes away from her. "If you're lucky, Norman will resign his leadership and you'll get inaugurated as Student Body President a little early. I thought maybe the school could stand a more efficient head at the wheel." Your smile is sharp. "A more honest one." 

As predicted that brings color to her cheeks, although you didn't necessarily mean it as a compliment. 

"I don't need your help," she says stiffly. "Norman and I have a system that works." 

"You are both full of so much crap it's a wonder you always manage you look so clean. We both know that he's using you, but you're the one deluded enough to think that because you're waiting him out of office you're using him back. There's really no comparison." 

"That's not--" 

"Oh, admit it." You're fed up. "Every gay high schooler and their brother dates the opposite sex in high school. He doesn't care about putting it in you as long as he can touch your breasts, especially now that he has his big burly blonde boy to put it into instead. You _aren't_ using--" 

"Shut up! Shut _up_ , you incessantly vile bitch, stop acting like you're my therapist -- like you know anything about me!" She shouts suddenly, and you open your car door. "Even in the _least_ bit. You know even less about me than you do Norman, but you just don't _give a fuck_ as long as you can twist the truth enough to make it look like you're right. Well?" 

"That's the second time you've called me a bitch," you say, watching her carefully. Her face is red, her hair fanned out like fire. She deflates just slightly. 

"Well…" 

"No, I like it." Your car door is still open, and you dare her with your legs to come closer. She only stares, so you add: "Would you like to sit down?" 

"You haven't listened to a single thing I've said," she says, walking around your car and opening the door to the passenger seat. There's a strand of red hair fallen right down the center of her face, brushing her nose. "All you know about me is that I'm dating Norman and that I'm gay." 

She's wrong. You know that she's a junior and a 4.0 student, looking at Harvard and Columbia for college. You know her address, that she's half-Korean and was born in the Midwest, and that her patience and attention to detail makes her a more efficient leader in anything than Norman Osborn's high intellect and boisterous attitude makes him. All of that was easy information to get your hands on; it was just laying there for anyone curious enough to snoop like all school records are. More difficult to learn was her boiling point of anger, her favorite shade of lipstick, her ordered lunch routine of a turkey sandwich and an apple. 

But, you think, that it's all mundane information. Anyone can know it. Why is it so important to her? 

"Uh," is all you say. Then: "You're not as complicated as you think." 

She looks at you sideways, and you can tell she's trying to figure out if she should be offended. "I know a lot about you. You're an easy person to understand if one just _looks,"_ you continue. 

"Why?" She asks. Now you stare at her. She really makes no sense sometimes.

"Why _what?"_

"Why know me?" She clarifies. "I don't know what your angle is." 

"I told you it already, and I _never_ do that." It's true. You don't, and you don't know why she's the exception. 

"I didn't tell Norman about us," she says after another moment. "I don't think he expected any of it to be true. That's just your bad luck." 

It figures. At least you already hate him. This revelation brings you no surprise or indignation, and you hope that he has a hell of a time cleaning up the scandal you left behind for him. 

"And I'm just his." 

She sighs. You lean over the gear shift and kiss her. She sighs again against your mouth, putting her hands on the sides of your face. You move closer, sliding your hand up her thigh and enjoying the way the skin underneath her skirt feels against your fingertips. 

Victoria pushes away your hand, climbing from her seat to yours so that she's seated in your lap. You exhale, for once unsure what to do next. Her weight is on you and instinctually you want to call her fat to ease the tension thrumming in your temples. She isn't, of course, but it would make you feel better. Her mouth is on yours again, and her hand is on your breast. You hold your tongue. 

 

You're staring Norman Osborn down with your arms crossed, your hips leaning to one side. Norman is standing exactly the same way, staring back. Robert is standing beside him you presume to hold him back if he gets angry, but Victoria is the only one of you that's talking. 

"--Therefore, I think it would be mutually beneficial if the two of you set aside your differences in favor of combined productive, beneficial behavio--" 

"You said beneficial already," Norman interrupts. 

" _Behavior_ \-- I'm _talking_ , Norman -- instead of sniping and sabotaging one another. We're all a team here, staff and Student Council-people alike. And… um, you, I guess." She glances at Robert, who shirks a little behind Norman. 

You smirk and hold your hand out, looking at Norman carefully. You'd rather stick your fingernail through his eye, but unlike Norman you're able to control yourself. He wrinkles his nose and shakes your hand, keeping eye contact with you. You can tell he wants to break your wrist, and you find that hilarious. 

"Don't worry, Norman. If you stay out of my way, I'll stay out of yours." You dig your nails just lightly into the back of his hand, leaving white tracks when he pulls it away. "You'll get my suspension lifted and I'm sure you won't even notice I'm here. Can you manage that?" 

He says "Yes," through grit teeth. "Fine. It's a deal. Come on, Bob. Let's go." He turns his back on you, putting his hand on Robert's shoulder to lead him away. 

"You'd think he'd want to lie low," you muse, looking at Victoria. "He really thinks he's bulletproof." 

"Yes, well. So do you," Victoria tells you, brushing her hair out of her face. "He says it's when you respond to the rumors that they're given credibility. That as long as he spends time with the other football players like Wilson and Danvers the other students will lose interest in the gossip." 

So bulletproof that it borders on the naive, you think. _You're_ nothing like that. 

"I suppose you two are busy with meetings today," you say, changing the subject. "After school." 

"And you have essays to grade," she says to you, looking at her clipboard. "We're all busy." 

Sometimes she's so spineless it makes you want to slap her. You grab her hand and pull her toward the door. 

"Let him handle it by himself. We're going to the beach," you tell her. "He's the President. You're just his backup." 

"But -- he--" She's gasping, unable to finish her sentences. You want Norman off her mind for just one fucking afternoon. You're at your car again and you open the passenger door for her. 

"Come on, get in." 

"Karla, this is crazy." 

"Your boyfriend is crazy," you respond smoothly. "Get in." 

She sighs at you, tossing her clipboard in her bag and getting into your car. You get in after and start the engine. 

"You wouldn't happen to have any more whisky on hand, would you?" She asks, and when you glance over she's smirking. "All this diplomacy has really made me thirsty." 

"Wait until we're at the beach," you say, catching a sharp turn. "Maybe I'll even let you pour it in my hair."


End file.
